


this little hand (in yours)

by havisham



Category: Macbeth - Shakespeare
Genre: Ambition, Anger, Betrayal, F/M, Female Anti-Hero, Love, Loyalty, Marriage, Plotting, Podfic Available
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-22
Updated: 2012-01-22
Packaged: 2017-10-30 00:03:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/325574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/havisham/pseuds/havisham
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They were once a study of contrasts, she and her lord. She was small and dark, her face an pale oval and kept carefully blank. He was ruddy-faced and boisterous, the king's favorite.</p><p>When she would put a fragile hand on his broad shoulder, he would stoop down to catch her whispered word.</p>
            </blockquote>





	this little hand (in yours)

Her ruthlessness used to make him laugh, a booming laugh that rattled through the castle.

They were once a study of contrasts, she and her lord. She was small and dark, her face an pale oval and kept carefully blank. He, ruddy-faced and boisterous, the king's favorite. When she would put a fragile hand on his broad shoulder, he would stoop down to catch her whispered word. He never did a thing without her approval, or without her knowledge.

Later, when everything crumbled and broke, they, _the envious they_ , would whisper that she was as much a witch as those crones upon the blasted heath. But that was never true.

She had no magic. Her tongue was her only weapon, but she wielded this more expertly than her lord wielded his sword.

Of her history, nothing was known. She had come to castle as a very young woman, barely out of girlhood and already a wife. Her Christian name was never known, for she was simply the Lady. Her lord, surely knew her name, but he kept this to himself, always calling her _dearest - darling - wife_.

The people were never fond of her, this dark and foreign Lady, and when she went out, her dark skirts would twitch out of the way, wary of spit and careless boots. It was impossible not to step on something. They took her silence as pride, her far-seeing eyes as boredom, as hauteur. They did not love her.

Duncan, the king, when he would come to Glamis, would settle on her an unfavorable eye. "Oh, but ye have but chosen a cold woman to warm your bed, lad." He said, in between gulps of ale. Some spilled from his lips and spotted his kingly tunic. Macbeth laughed uncertainly, and his eyes sought her out.

She, embroidery uninterrupted, said, "I only warm to my own lord, your majesty, and no one else."

Duncan gave her a long shrewd look.

"Loyalty is good quality to have in a wife," he finally conceded.

She smiled a thin smile. "Aye, and in lords, to their kings."

Macbeth interrupted, "Banquo and I do wish to hunt with you, my lord."

And so immersed were they with their plans, they did not notice when she left the room.

 

+

"Do you not love me, my lord?" She asked, as they lay together, limbs entangled and their warm breaths puffing in the cooling air. He, between pants, assured her of his most ardent love. She pulled her dark hair away from her face, and studied him. "You love the king as well, do you not?"

He leaned towards her, and gripped her tight. She watched him with cool interest.

He said, "I am the King's man, though and though."

"He has openly insulted me."

"He does not mean to..."

"He has said that I am barren."

His hands caressed her flat belly, and moved to her small breasts.

"And that having married me has made you cursed."

He sighed. "What would you have me do?"

She shook her head. "Nothing." She moved closer to him, and pushed him down, and moved on top of him. Languorously, she took him. He gasped, he arched, he burned for her.

In the end, she kissed his damp forehead, and said, "Nothing, yet."

+

Between then and now there is an impenetrable cloud. Too many events taken place, too many lives have been taken. The Queen studies her reflection in the mirror, silver-backed, framed in wood so dark as to be black. It is the finest mirror in the land. Below, one can hear the yells of her lord, cursing the incompetence of generals, and cursing himself to the Devil.

A pale face looks back at her. Dark hair underneath a golden crown. Hooded eyes of an uncertain color. White lips, pressed tight.

She -- _the reflection_ \-- cocks her head. "Who am I?"

She asks the silent room.

She is a queen, of course, she has a crown.

_\-- Duncan had no crown, when he died, remember his dead white face, with such a lot of blood -- the blood on her hands as she smears it on the faces of the sleeping guards ---_

"What do I rule?"

Nothing.

Below, her lord has lapsed into silence.

"What is my name?"

No answer.

She glances down, to her hands. Blood seeps in, paints the folds of her hands with bright, wet lines. Such a lot of blood.

"What have I done?"

Her reflection chuckles, deep and brittle with amusement. "Oh, my love," it sighs, "What have you not done?"

 

+

The Queen's screams echo through the castle.

 

Mad. She is mad.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] This Little Hand (in Yours)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/690513) by [LadyofMisrule](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyofMisrule/pseuds/LadyofMisrule)




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